


Talented People With Interesting Skillsets: Riffs and Remixes

by CharleyFoxtrot, MurphysScribe



Series: Talented People With Interesting Skillsets [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Synaesthesia, Talented People With Interesting Skillsets, psychic ability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurphysScribe/pseuds/MurphysScribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of remixes, drabbles, missing scenes and character studies, playing with the world CharleyFoxtrot created for the Talented People With Interesting Skillsets Sherlock Holmes fanfiction.<br/>Latest Additions: How Harry and Sally met...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Beginning?: A Taste For Deduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fanfiction, based on BBC Sherlock, and using concepts and plot elements from CharleyFoxtrot's fanfiction, J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick, which can be read here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/390248/chapters/640076
> 
> None of the characters belong to me, and their psychic abilities are not mine either. I write for my own amusement, and I'm playing in a nested set of sandboxes.

This is a missing scene that goes somewhere between Chapter [6 and Chapter 7 of J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick](390248/chapters/643010).

 

After their adventures inside Sherlock’s head (even with his background, Greg couldn’t quite believe he’d formed that thought) Greg knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock started treating the lot of them as an extension of his experiments.

Sherlock and John had already been all over the map, pulling the edges of their mental bond, seeing how far apart they could be and still hear each other. At least, most of their trips were research. The pair came back from a jaunt to Oxford (ostensibly to look an archival collection about psychic studies) emanating waves of _pink/sticky-toffee/ utter besottedness_ that hinted at a dirty weekend in a B &B. Being around the pair of them, sometimes Greg didn't need sugar in his tea.

John and Sally had worked to find her every scrap of research they could about lucid dreaming, to give her some kind of hold on the images she saw.

A lazy Saturday afternoon. Greg was debating whether to watch football down the pub or at home. He had the house to himself, at least for a while. John and Sherlock had gone out to do the shopping. Sherlock was clearly planning something, he’d been all radiating _pink-blue-bubblegum-curiosity_  lit through with shiny sparks of _silver-blue-smug-keen-intellect_. And anyway- Sherlock doing the shopping willingly?

Greg’s suspicions got the better of his interest in the match, as the pair came in laden with Tesco bags. He followed them into the kitchen and helped unpack. Tea, milk, those chocolate digestive biscuits, tins of beans, pasta and sauce, bread, ice cream, eggs, lager, a pack of chicken, the normal staples.

But the next bag? Hot sauce. Tinned sardines. Three flavors of crisps. One of those posh bag salad mixes with the baby greens. Two kinds of cheese. Beef jerky. Curry sauce in a jar. Limes, lemons and a grapefruit. Red grapes. Taco chips and salsa. Mustard. Licorice: black and red. Dark chocolate. Packets of fake sweetener. A giant box of crayons.

“We’ve got a couple films too,” John offered. He fanned out a selection of DVDs: Die Hard, which Greg hadn’t seen in ages, and then, perplexingly, the Muppet Caper (which his kids loved) and… was that Love, Actually? “We were thinking about a night in and a few movies,” John offered, his shields up, and his smile guileless.

“We were thinking about gauging the full spectrum of your ability, and finding a way to track it, or experience some analogue,” Sherlock amended.

Greg narrowed his eyes at his flatmates. Tasting sardines at the back of his throat off someone's emotions was one thing, eating them was quite another. “You definitely forgot the bubble gum,” he said. He wondered if he could still escape to the pub.


	2. New Beginnings: Sally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally has a dream.
> 
> Ties to the plot points from Ch 7 of J.B. Rhine Was Kind of A Dick. Thanks to CharleyFoxtrot for the loan of the sandbox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work of fanfiction, based on BBC Sherlock, and using concepts and plot elements from CharleyFoxtrot's fanfiction, J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick, which can be read here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/390248/chapters/640076
> 
> None of the characters belong to me, and their psychic abilities are not mine either. I write for my own amusement, and I'm playing in a nested set of sandboxes.

_Bloodstains in the sand, rust-colored under the searing green of night goggles. Scorched metal, burnt plastic. Fast racing pulse. Boom! (So loud it rattled deep in your own ribcage, the animal alertness waiting for it to come closer, the noise to mean you.) Tactics- the ones you’d planned in the quiet before, with sudden twists and changes jammed in to stay alive. Breathing, heart hammering._

_This is what John remembers. This is what John knows,_ Sally thought. She wondered what his memory palace would look like- a barracks? How heavy would the door be, locking these memories closed until dreams blasted them open? She tried to slow her breathing, take in the battlefield images—knowing that it was only a dream. Maybe even some scrap of John’s dream? Even after reading some of the research John had found, she didn’t know if that was possible.

Sally knew the violence of the images should scare her. Knew she was having a nightmare, should wake up biting back a yell like John Watson did. (Greg said he could taste his flatmate’s nightmares the morning after, _heat-ripples/tan-grit-sand/scorched-metal/determination and fear/copper-sucking-on-pennies_ ) Instead, she felt her entire body fizzing with a sharp carbonated excitement. Eager for adventure. Fizzing, sparkling excitement, taste of seltzer and lime… she’d have to tell Greg she was starting to think like him.

_She crouched next to a group of soldiers, huddled in their bulky camouflage. Her heart lurched- she didn’t see John among them, or anyone familiar. Using what John and Greg had begun to teach her—she tried to send emotions out— the heart lurching feeling, hopes they’d be all right. Be safe. Get home. She tried to hold the feeling steady, as explosions came closer. Knew she was dreaming, no idea whether it would work in a dream, or whether thinking at strangers would work for her._

“Wha?” murmured Harry sleepily, as Sally sat up, pulling herself awake. Sally looked at the clock. 6 A.M. It was set to go off in an hour for work. Harry burrowed closer, her nose poking into Sally’s hip, blond curls spilling over onto Sally’s lap. Careful not to wake Harry, Sally twisted and reached for the notebook she kept on the nightstand now, jotted down a few notes about the dream. Harry flung an arm across Sally’s legs and made sleepy noises.

Absently stroking her lover’s hair, Sally pondered. It had felt different, somehow… not as urgent as her usual precog dreams, steering her toward some inevitable that would click into place once she found herself in the scene. Was she sharing a dream with John? Huh. That would be new. A side effect of trying to be telepathic?

The dream lingered through a slow work morning of cold cases and paperwork. Then her mobile pinged: “COME TO 221B! THE GAME IS AFOOT!-SH” Greg walked into her office, holding his mobile in loose fingers and looking gobsmacked. Sally felt the excitement fizz through her. “My flatmates are plotting something insane and dangerously heroic, but John says you already knew that…”

With battlefield images lingering in her mind’s eye, and that mix of compassion and worry and fear and hope (Greg had said hope tasted of vanilla, but she had no idea about the rest) Sally tuned out the noise of the Yard and tried to aim her thoughts. She tried to gather the colors, the sound, and most of all, the mix of emotions, into a parcel, and push them toward John. “Dreamed it, already,” she told them. She caught a sense of approval from John- she’d had better success with telepathy since they’d walked around in Sherlock’s head. And a ghosting of something more—he’d understood the shadings of emotion she was trying to convey. She smiled ruefully. Good. She couldn’t have put it into words if she’d tried.


	3. Talented People With Bloody Boring Skillsets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because having a special talent isn't always extraordinary or life-altering for Sherlock, Watson, Sally and Greg. Sometimes it's funny, stupid, inconvenient, or just bloody boring. A few short, silly scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, Sherlock does not belong to me. I don't profit from the use of the characters, except in hours of amused daydreams. And many thanks to Charley Foxtrot, for loaning me the fanfiction sandbox.

**Greg Lestrade and the Taste of Victory**

 

Greg Lestrade liked to watch sport. He hadn't always. Growing up with the ability to read emotions, to taste them, even, had made him wary of loud, enthusiastic crowds. It wasn't until his late teens that his mates managed to drag him out to a pub to watch a football match.

To his surprise, Greg found that, for the first time, he could be surrounded by a large crowd-- and barely taste anything strange at all. He nursed a pint of lager or cider, ate greasy chips from the takeaway, and yelled approval when his team scored (and dismay when the referee made a terrible call.) Occasionally, an undercurrent bled through. He could always feel a heckler from the opposing team _khaki/stale-ash/surly-argumentative_ before they started booing. And girlfriends dragged to the pub and bored by the game seemed to pulse with _dull green- puckering lemons-jealousy_

But mostly, it was a blissful mental quiet, without intrusions of color or taste. 

Greg Lestrade decided he liked watching sport. Especially once he got to be mates with John Watson and his dampening shields. (Or Sally and her surprisingly pithy, anatomically improbable, comments about the ref's bad calls.)

 

It wasn't until his son joined a youth rugby team, and Greg was on the sidelines, yelling encouragement that he realized:

Cheering his team, hoping for victory, surrounded by a crowd feeling the same...

Had always filled his empathic senses with the taste of lager and greasy chips.

He'd just never noticed, because he'd been eating them already.

 

**Sherlock's Least Favorite Chore**

It was no secret that Sherlock hated doing chores. Shopping, the washing up. Anything that reminded him he was ordinary and human, instead of a keen intellect wrapped in an afterthought of a body that got him from place to place. Boring! And Sherlock, of course, hated being bored.

Most of all, Sherlock hated doing laundry.Loathed it. He'd tried, really, at uni. He'd tried to treat it as an opportunity to hone his deductive skills on his classmates to relieve the tedium. Still, crushingly dull and a waste of time.

And worse yet: as someone with a gift for finding lost objects...

Sherlock's gift snaked out in all directions as his hapless fellow students scooped clothes out of the dryer, counted their socks, swore and grumbled. He wanted to leap across the room pointing his finger: "It's under your bed!" "It's stuck in one of your trainers!" "It's got in with your girlfriend's laundry!"

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line and made plans to reward himself with a session in the chemistry lab analyzing the composition of local mud.

This was where the closest thing Sherlock had to fashion sense emerged- button down shirts, figure hugging slacks. They flattered him, he knew on some level but more importantly: things that were dry clean only.

And if 221B was conveniently located to a dry cleaner's shop owned by a former client grateful that he'd cleared her name... so much the better.

 

**Statistics and the Dream Come True: Sally**

The average person dreams almost every night. And over 70% of those dreams are forgotten quickly, mundane amalgamations of scenes from work, chores, family, as the subconscious sifted through the day's happenings, the brain filing things away. A boy at uni had told her that. He was reading psychology. And he seemed to have a statistic for everything:  Only 10 percent of the human species is left-handed. ... men have 1.23 times the odds of being left-handed, compared to women's chances. 81% of backrubs led to sex. 13-15% of women were multi-orgasmic. Once, in a fit of pique, she'd told him that 86% of statistics were made up on the spot.

Sally had her office door open as she worked away at her computer. Bits of conversation filtered in.

"Turns out the prints on the knife were the granny from the flat below, right...."

"...canteen's out of tea! Out of tea? How does that even happen?"

"... old bird had Anderson convinced she was daft

"...robbery was just a cover..." "....pull the bank records..."

"electric kettle..." "...started on the crochet like she hadn't just been stabbing away..."

Sally quirked a small smile as the last of the conversations fell into place. She saved what she was working on and shut down her computer seconds before a wave of exclamations and outraged swearing swept through the other offices and the squad room. She pulled a stack of paperwork towards her and began filling out forms by hand.

Greg stuck his head round the door, looking peeved and harassed. "The entire server's just gone down, nobody can get at the fingerprint database, their files, nothing-- Dimmock's just lost an entire month of reports."

"Mmhm," Sally said. "It won't be back til tomorrow,"

Greg did a double take, stepped into her office with his voice lowered. "You knew?"

"The second the canteen ran out of tea."

Sally felt somewhere between pleased with herself and peeved. What good was a clear precog dream, if it was just another day at the office, and an annoying one at that?


	4. When Harry Met, Well, you know...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a missing vignette that fits in around Chapter 4 of CharleyFoxtrot's J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick, to explain how Sally and Harry got together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fits in around Chapter 4 of Charley Foxtrot's "J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick." It's my attempt at writing Harry Watson. Since I don't know much about her other than that she's had a drinking problem and a former lover named Clara, I improvised a bit, in terms of career and such, and made her an office temp... assuming those exist in London, analogous to my own experience. 
> 
> Also, improvising how Harry would interact with having a psychic brother. This takes place in the Reichenbach interval, before Sherlock comes home.

When Harry Met… well, you know

Harry Watson. Writer, sometimes. Temporary secretary, sometimes. Disastrous drunk… more times than she cared to think about. (Past times!) Clara’s pet. (Good times… until they spectacularly weren’t.) Lover of women, fledgling artist (someone at a meeting had suggested trying, and she found she rather liked toting a sketchbook around and playing with pencils and shadows and colors.)   
Harry Watson, sister to a capable and cautious-minded soldier-doctor-keen-edged sort of a force of nature who sometimes, still, made her feel an awkward shambles. Even now when she could look back at her last drink across months, rather than (weeks-days-hours-don’t-think-about-it.)

Getting to know him sober… was like getting to know a new person. But she couldn’t tell which one of them was brand new, the way he was looking, a smile chasing itself around his eyes, taut soldier-face lines easing, concerned protective-brother frown lines rubbing themselves smooth. 

They met for lunch whenever she was working near the clinic. She had an on-again-off-again data entry assignment in an office nearby. Endless Excel spreadsheets punctuated by Thai food with her brother. Not a bad few days. Sometimes, he leaned in conspiratorially, and told her something he’d no real right to know: the man ordering dumplings was seething at his boss, the woman getting Pad Thai to go was nostalgic for a trip in her uni days, the deliveryman had a band. Her brother’s mind was astonishing, and, she thought, probably terrifyingly noisy. Hearing her own thoughts was noisy enough for her (Lord knows, she’d tried to drown them quiet down a bottle or two, not that it worked) she couldn’t imagine knowing what her brother knew. 

“Do you want to come round on Saturday? Sally hasn’t seen Thunderball.”  
The one who called Sherlock “Freak,” Harry remembered, but bit her tongue. She didn’t want to bring up John’s absent? Former? Flatmate. “And you’re making her watch it? Why?” she asked. “It’s a completely rubbish film.”  
“Don’t ask me, it’s Greg’s idea, that everyone in Britain needs to see all the Bond films as a matter of civic, national pride. Except for the George Lazenby one.”  
Harry laughed. Greg had strong opinions about On His Majesty’s Secret Service. She’d fallen all over the couch laughing while he ranted about the film. She liked Greg. He was good for her brother. John seemed to think it was his job to worry about her. But she did some worrying of her own. Especially now that Sherlock…  
John shot her a look. He’d caught the thought. She felt guilty, but put a brave smile on. “I’d love to come. What time?”  
“Say half seven?”

When Harry first saw Sally, she felt the room tilt and sway, though the glass in her hand only held seltzer and lime. She blushed and retreated to the kitchen, to fiddle with ice cubes in her glass. John trailed her into the kitchen.

“She hasn’t dated women, as far as I know,” John told her in a low voice, answering a question she hadn’t asked.   
Harry very badly wanted to ask him to… confirm this. But she took a deep breath. “Right.” 

A few weeks later, after Harry had worked up her courage enough to find out that Sally had also been working up hers, she happened to be on a secretary assignment near New Scotland Yard. She texted Sally, and asked her to meet for lunch, feeling terribly brave and pleased with herself.

Sally didn’t have a case, and was able to emerge from the office at the same time Harry got lunch. They got sandwiches and sat on a bench in the sunshine, interrupting each other, talking and grinning. 

“I never dreamed this,” Sally said, sounding contented, and a little surprised.

It was another few weeks, after the two had spent a few nights together here and there, and Sally had woken up and lunged for a notepad in the dead of night… that Harry realized Sally was being literal.


	5. Mycroft's Biggest Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes, embodiment of the British Government, does something not even his assistant knows about.

Mycroft Holmes had power. Trading in knowledge and logistics, orchestrating, strategizing.

Mycroft Holmes had access to information, to people, to resources at the snap of a finger.

Mycroft Holmes, some would say, was the embodiment of the British government itself.

 

Mycroft Holmes knew that his abilities to orchestrate, to convince, to master the possibilities of the situation, extended, perhaps, beyond simple rhetoric and the flow of information. He knew that it was more than choice words that allowed him to sit at the head of a table and guide those around it to the logical conclusion and the best course of action. Mycroft could make people feel. 

From his schoolboy days, Mycroft had known he was destined for a role in government.

 

The extent of his power was guessed by many of course (if not the full extent of its underpinnings in certain mental skill sets) but nobody, not even his assistant, knew his secret.

 

Mycroft arrived at the bland corporate building and walked through its busy lobby, studying the people around him (much like his younger brother, Mycroft had cultivated a keen eye for the minute details that made deduction possible.)

Waiting for the elevator that led to the third floor and a meeting about a project that didn't officially exist, Mycroft let his attention and his talent wander. 

 

For the woman standing stiffly in a new suit, clutching a work bag in a sweaty hand: Mycroft reached his mind toward hers, taming her job interview nerves with a glimpse of the confidence he'd built after years of successful machinations. He saw her shoulders relax.

 

The man stabbing the elevator button and flicking glances at his watch between exaggerated huffs of breath. Mycroft gave him the emotions wrapped around a lazy Sunday mornining in bed, the lazy stretch of time. The man's finger dropped from the elevator button. Mycroft heard him humming.

 

The woman rubbing her face sleepily, clutching a giant cup of strong coffee- Mycroft gave her a taste of his own sharp sense of purpose, the eager alertness of a morning person who didn't need much sleep.

 

Mycroft left the elevator, leaving these strangers behind, swinging his umbrella as he walked down the hall. He made sure the receptionist he encountered thought, fully believed, that she was beautiful and valued. Without flickering an eyelash, or departing from the faint smile that befitted a somewhat enigmatic functionary of the British government.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A poker night... as a psychic training exercise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place somewhere between chapters 4 and 5 of "J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick," riffing on the idea that Watson and Sherlock cross their eyes when they communicate telepathically.
> 
> I had been trying to figure out how they'd break the habit, and thinking about Greg and his Tarot cards...
> 
> As ever, Sherlock and co are not mine, their psychic abilities are Charley's creation.

Still half-asleep, Greg put the kettle on for tea. He took a moment before opening the fridge door, mentally preparing himself. Hazards of having Sherlock for a flatmate- some of the things in the fridge were decidedly _not_ food. Didn’t bear thinking about this early in the morning.

“You found the ears in the crisper, didn’t you? I told Sherlock he needed to get rid of those, but he got all stroppy about his experiment…” said John, padding into the kitchen groggily. Greg snorted, not sure which was stranger- the conversation they were having, or the fact that the start of it hadn’t been spoken aloud. He got out mugs and tea bags, and peered cautiously into the fridge for the milk. Everything _looked_ like food…

When he turned back, he saw John standing, staring cross-eyed. John got a third mug. “Sherlock’s awake.” John went cross-eyed for another moment, then nodded, and set about making a few slices of toast. Breakfast in bed, Greg guessed, before he caught the sticky sweet residue of their emotions, and decided not to have sugar in his tea. Living with the two of them, he’d lose at least a stone.

“You two have to do something about that cross-eyed thing,” Greg ventured. “It looks completely bizarre!”

John grinned ruefully. “You’re right. We could practice in the mirror, I guess? Or I wonder if…” The toast popped, and John’s thoughts shifted, getting all toffee-sticky and pink, to Greg’s senses, before John woke up enough to slide his shields into place.

Greg took a swallow of tea, and wandered off to brush his teeth.

 

_Later that night...._

Sherlock was between cases, but engrossed enough in a new monograph that he hadn’t become completely destructive with boredom. John was on his laptop, typing away, and Greg was finishing up the dishes.

“Greg, do you have plans Thursday night?” John asked, when Greg came into the sitting room.

“Not unless we’re on a case,” Greg said, after thinking a moment.

“A nice double-homicide would be lovely… I daren’t hope for a serial killer…” Sherlock murmured, but the other two ignored him.

“Why, what’ve you got on?”

“What would you think of a poker night?”

That was so… normal and blokey… it took Greg a second to catch up to the thought.  “With Sherlock?”

“You’d play poker, Sherlock, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock huffed and managed to sprawl disdainfully.

“Think of it- we’ll teach you the rules in minutes, and then it’s all kinds of deduction of motives, and calculating probabilities of cards…” John’s mouth turned up at the corners. Greg caught an orange and peppery flash of wicked glee, and smothered a laugh.

Sherlock’s fingers came together, steepled under his chin. He was intrigued.

John’s fingers sped across the keyboard. “Right. I’ll arrange everything. It’ll be good practice, too, if Sherlock and I need to talk behind the scenes,” he looked at Greg and made an exaggerated show of crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out.

Greg laughed.

And that was how, about a week later, Greg found himself sitting at a table in the living room, shuffling cards and dealing to his flatmates, Harry Watson (an absurdly good card player, she’d taught John, apparently), a doorman named Liam (who was probably some kind of psychic- his mind had some of the same absolute _quiet_ as a fully shielded John), and two blokes John had introduced as friends of Angelo’s… both of whom Greg was sure he recognized from photographs in folders in New Scotland Yard. Best not to ask, Greg told himself. If John, and for that matter, Angelo, vouched for them, he’d leave it be… at least for tonight. The bearded one, Giovanni, was a little peeved at how small the stakes were, a friendly pot of a few quid- not what he was used to- but was taking it with reasonable grace. Angelo had stopped by at the start of the evening with his mates, and a deliciously unreasonable quantity of sandwiches. Sally was making short work of a chicken parm hero, peering over Harry’s shoulder at her cards.

Greg was sitting next to John, and across from Sherlock, poised to deliver a swift kick to either one if they went cross-eyed talking telepathically.

Sherlock had a respectable pile of chips in front of him. He’d been having what was either really good beginner’s luck, or, and Greg suspected this was more likely, deduction of body language with an occasional bit of mental coaching from John. (It was probably only a matter of time before the consulting detective tried counting cards.) 

John shot Greg an alarmed look just then, as if he'd heard what Greg was thinking. (He probably had...) John's eyes meandered toward the bridge of his nose, and Greg poked his trainer at John's ankles. Sherlock's eyes slid down his nose as well. Greg kicked, then grinned, making a show of studying his hand. Sherlock huffed his irritation into his bangs. He was rolling his eyes, but at least hadn't crossed them again. Progress, then. He took a swig of beer.

 **He is, you know, counting cards. Finding ability, you know.**  John observed, speaking directly and telepathically to Greg. Greg spluttered and Sally had to whack him on the back. "You alright there?"

Sherlock flicked John a haughty look. John just grinned mildly, and corrected a few details in a family story Harry was telling, about learning to cook and trying recipes on an extremely reluctant John. Both of the Italians (Frederico was, at least nominally in the restaurant business, though Greg reckoned it was a front...) roared with laughter. 

Greg was trying to be a good sportsman himself, and ignore the fact that Harry was throwing off an aura of shiny orange glee that tasted like curry, every time she had a good hand.

Greg scowled at his cards. His great aunt had been able to tell fortunes with a simple deck of playing cards, as well as with Tarot cards. All Greg could divine from this hand was that it foretold him losing a few quid, imminently. He set his cards down when Harry raised again, and Sherlock raised her bet. “Right. I’m folding.” He wandered into the kitchen to grab another sandwich.

“Mind if I sit in?” Sally asked, wiping crumbs and sauce from her fingers.

“All yours, and help yourself to my vast riches,” Greg said, with a nod to his meager pile of chips. He surrendered his chair and perched on the couch, where he could still catch his flatmates if they went cross-eyed. He cracked open a bottle of beer.

Greg tasted Sherlock’s smugness, all blue edges and ice cubes, when the consulting detective started raising, and presented a royal flush, to good-natured groans from his friends.

He chewed his sandwich and surveyed the room. Psychics, two possible criminals (computer hacking in one case, burglary in the other, if Greg remembered correctly), two utterly besotted couples, and Greg hadn’t felt this relaxed since… he couldn’t remember when.

He had a strange life.

A strange life, but a very good one.


End file.
